


1912

by Albion19



Category: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Diary/Journal, F/M, Flashbacks, RMS Titanic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:38:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2396984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Albion19/pseuds/Albion19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After decades together Elena finds Elijah's journal concerning the week he and his siblings were onboard the Titanic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Elijah centric but with some Elejah moments. AU.

The third lumbar room is located in the attic and it is already spilling over. A person, though not a hoarder, can collect quite a number of possessions in their lifetime and Elijah is no exception.  However when that person is well over a thousand attics and spare rooms soon transform into warehouses and shipping containers.  But the items in this house are too personal to store away and forget.

She leafs through boxes filled with old vinyl records, music sheets, yellowing newspapers and photographs. The latter is what she is searching for and she has a job ahead of her. Elijah, as she discovered quite early on, has a passion for photography. He has many interests, some outlandish like freefalling or mundane like dominoes but taking pictures is a love that has never left him.  He is not alone in his enthusiasm and that is why they both find themselves cataloguing old photographs.

“I have contacts with private collectors who are prepared to offer quite a sum for these,” he had explained. He is incredibly wealthy but is prudent enough not to take it for granted so occasionally he trades or sales the considerable artefacts he has collected over the centuries. As Elena picks out the photos and negatives and divides them into neat piles she comes across a slim, battered leather bound book and pulls it out of a box. A photograph is slotted into it, three quarters in, and Elena tugs the photo out.

A woman, with her back to the camera, is staring out to sea. Tendrils of hair blow in the wind, frozen forever. The woman’s white hands are wrapped around a rail. The woman is tall, statuesque even, and appears to be standing on either a balcony or a boat. Elena flips the photograph over but sees no writing on the back, nothing to indicate the date or who she is. Curious she gets to her feet, slotting the photo back into the pages but stops when familiar handwriting catches her eye.

 

> _The ship was gargantuan, truly awe inspiring and I admit to feeling strangely dwarfed, not solely in stature but character. The workmanship and craft that went into building it, the human innovation and scope left me humbled and lifted the ennui that has been plaguing me. Titanic was not named for her size but out of conformity and rivalry -_

Elena freezes. The pages are warped, as if they had been wet and left out in the sun to dry. The ink is blotted and stained but still legible. She feels a hot prickle running down her back and looks up to see Elijah appearing in the doorway, carrying a cardboard box. Elena closes the diary and turns, smiling.

“Any luck?”

“I found this,” she says and after a moments hesitation pulls out the photograph from the journal and hands it to him. He takes it and his face shifts subtly, from his usual stillness to something on edge. Many would not be able to tell the difference but after the decades she has spent with him it’s as clear as if he just started shouting. His jaw clenches and he breathes slowly out through his nose as he shakes his head.

“I haven’t seen this in years. Where did you find it?”

“In this,” she says and shows him the journal. As she does she notices that there is a date faintly embossed onto the leather: _1912_. At one time it would have been gold but only flecks remain. “Some of what you had written caught my eye. I didn’t know it was private.”

His lips quirk a little as he stares down at the picture. “Remember the first time I entered your bedroom? I brazenly leafed through your diary.”

“I recall, so rude,” she smirks but quickly grows serious. She does not want to make light of the matter, this is not just a normal diary entry but the beginnings of a tragedy. Still she can’t deny her curiosity. She had known that Elijah and some of his siblings had been on board the ship, he had told her many decades ago, but his pain had been palpable, even then.

“I believe you’ve actually seen her,” he says suddenly, showing her the picture of the tall woman. Elena frowns, trying to recall her.

“Who is she?”

“Mary Porter.”

“Scary Mary?” Elena had seen her once, pinned dead to a wall like a bizarre butterfly. Kol had killed her. At the mention of her nickname Elijah’s mouth thins a little but he nods. Elena tilts her head. “Why was she called that?”

“Mary had the unfortunate and repellent custom of turning children.”

Elena’s eyes widen. She has turned a handful of people in her time, once by accident but mostly those that wished for it. She could not imagine doing something so awful. “She was insane.”

“She was lonely and utterly delusional. They were always orphans. I think she saw herself as their mother, saving them from a life in the workhouses or worse. Apart from that she was one of the most harmless vampires I had ever come across. She boarded at Cherbourg, hearing that we were passengers.”

“Your groupie,” Elena remarks and Elijah hides his smile by taking the journal from her. His humour fades away as he loses focus, deep in thought. Finally he offers the journal back to her.

“You can continue if you wish. It won’t be pleasant reading.”

“Only if you’re sure?” she asks softly, knowing that he would not have given her the journal if he wasn’t. She has heard the story often, of course, but as an impartial historian. Now she knows she will be deeply affected by what she reads because it is personal. He is her love and it is something that still causes him sadness and for someone who has seen and experienced much that says volumes.

“I’d like you to. I’ve never talked to anyone about it and after all these years with you I still couldn’t. Maybe this is the best way,” he says and brushes his fingers down her arm tenderly before leaving her.

She watches him disappear down the hall with a sad smile and turns back into the attic, choosing an old armchair under a small round window. She runs her hand over the leather, ring on her finger glinting, which is now warmed by the sun. She inhales, taking in the scent of dust, ink and salt before she cracks the journal open and starts to read.


	2. 10th of April

Such an uneventful, peaceful morning would have to be bookended by drama. I am half tempted to steal one of the life boats and row to New York, I’d probably reach the shore before the ship. However if I do the consequences will be on my head and so it seems I must play mediator again.

The night is dark and skies overcast. We are sailing away from France and approaching Ireland and then out into open sea and the New World.  

Rebekah, of course, was late but the train left Waterloo and pulled up at Southampton in good time. The ship is astounding, both within and out and the pictures I have seen of her construction do not do it justice. The ship is gargantuan, truly awe inspiring and I admit to feeling strangely dwarfed, not in solely stature but character. The workmanship and craft that went into building it, the innovation and scope left me humbled and lifted the ennui that has been plaguing me. Titanic was not named for her size but out of conformity and rivalry and I must say the ship is unmatched.

Nothing like pure human advancement to put oneself in place. The world is lucky that vampires do not invent otherwise we would still be in the dark ages. Modernisation for our race is an uncomfortable notion, to say the least, and I think they are scared. It is hard being in such a fast moving time when we are so static by our very nature but we must adapt or risk being left behind.

We were greeted by Captain Smith, a portly jovial man who Rebekah dubbed Noel at first glance. She is not one for subtlety. We were shown to our rooms and thankfully they are worth every extortionate penny. I opted for the Empire style while Becca favoured the Queen Anne. I think Kol is bedding with a couple in third class but knowing him by tomorrow he’ll be sharing with Astor.

Kol. Of course he would be here, as if he would miss this. I sometimes think it’s his life’s mission to undermine and generally be a petulant ball of discord when he is around me. I can see the gleam in his eye when I approach him, the quipping, rude retort just waiting to fire. He is my brother and I love him but dear god I am tempted hourly to throw him overboard.

I don’t know what to do with him. I admit I gave up after the ordeal in Paris in ’89, disowning him seemed the only option left and he seemed more than pleased at my decision. It is easy to ignore his antics when he’s half a world away but far harder to turn a blind eye when he’s three decks below. I weep for the third class.

The reason for my irritation is not solely down to Kol’s presence but rather the company he keeps: Mary Porter. Why did he have to bring her on board? I’m a soft creature, if I wasn’t I would have killed her centuries ago. I will write what happened for prosperity sake and as a pressure valve, to save myself from committing fratricide.

 

*

I have always been, sometimes to my disadvantage, a curious man. I think this is in my favour as there is nothing worse than immortality being wasted on the tedious. Such creatures do not last long of course. My passion has been, for the last few years, photography and it has not waned. It is an industry and craft that evolves and develops and I have watched and participated in its growth with fervour. I was eager to use the compact Kodak on the ship, especially as there is a dark room on board.

So, grasping a moment’s peace, I explored the upper deck of the ship. I took many pictures of the sea, promenade and the few people that wandered. That was when I saw her. She is an individually tall woman, statuesque but graceful. She towers over me, though by her conduct you would not see it. Her hair was blowing around her wildly, dark red waves unrestrained and I thought she might have been one of the third class passengers who had sneaked up, her attire worn and patched. She was staring out to sea, looking back at the island we just left. Her face was obscured but melancholy was wrapped around her like a shawl. I felt compelled to take her picture.

The noise made her turn and there she was, all shock and reverence: Mary. She was about to drop to her knees, lying flat with her forehead pressed to the deck, an image that has been seared onto my mind for years. It takes just as long to make her stop when she sees me or one of my siblings but I cannot stop her calling me “my lord.” She stared at the camera in my hands like it was some strange magical contraption. Which it is.

“Have you never had your picture taken Mary?” I asked.

“No my lord,” she replied, straining towards me but not moving a step. That is the strange thing about Mary, she is utterly consumed with reverence concerning my family but she is equally restrained by the same passion. We are to be seen, not touched. I think Klaus taught her that, poor woman.

“May I?” I lifted the camera to my face and she was so happy she almost cried. I hate seeing her, she makes my skin crawl with guilt and sadness. She disgusts me as much as she draws my pity and it is our fault. We ripped her life away, gave her one that made no sense, which drove her insane and then passed her between us like a child with a ball. Soon she became too much trouble; the fun wore off as she became more and more deluded. She is a constant reminder of how monstrous we are. At least to me.

I cannot be around her for too long and it’s a disgraceful and cowardly thing to admit. But to pass the time with her for a few days would not be hell and it gives her joy, as misplaced and curdled as it is. However my pleasant afternoon was about to be spoiled when Rebekah appeared with her old maid, Vera.

“Oh perfect!” she cried when she saw Mary, “What on earth is she doing here?”

“I invited her!” At the sound of his voice all our faces dropped, except Mary, she smiled more brightly than ever. Kol slung his arm over her shoulders and grinned at us. “Don’t look so glum! It’ll be fun, you’ll see!”

His eyes said differently. I need a drink.


End file.
